


In Stuttgart

by Khalehla



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Crack, Footy fic challenge, M/M, VfB Stuttgart - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-17 16:02:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9332609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khalehla/pseuds/Khalehla
Summary: a.k.a the meeting ofthe VfB Stuttgart Secret Society for Supportive Significant OthersStuttgart get promoted back to the 1. Bundesliga and celebrate the momentous event.Involves some prawn canapés, ridiculous costumes, and Philipp Lahm's truly impressive eyebrows.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm starting off the non-VDay challenge with some good old-fashioned nonsense by my favourite national team :D 
> 
> Please enjoy, and if you're curious to know what this is, if you want to join, or want to read more fics in this challenge, you can [get more information here.](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/nonVDay2017/profile) Either way, I hope you enjoy all of them! 
> 
> Hugs, _khalehla_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a.k.a. Khalehla's attempt to stick as many ships into one club from the same national team. If I missed someone, I'm honestly disappointed :D
> 
> Also, dedicating this to [Meerschweinchen](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Meerschweinchen/pseuds/Meerschweinchen) for loving Stuttgart and teaching me little bits about the region; for [Natteravn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Natteravn/pseuds/Natteravn) because you inspired me one day with this idea; and for [eruditemonk](http://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_declan/pseuds/eruditemonk) because you laugh at my work even when it's not funny (a sign of a good friend **:P** ).

“Mother _faaaaaah…!_ ”

Normally, someone swearing wouldn’t be interesting at all, and even the _thud_ of someone obviously falling over and crashing into something wouldn’t make Manuel want to turn around because, well, he was trying not to draw attention to himself, but when the same person mutters “why do people leave their shit around for someone to trip over?!” in a very familiar voice, he turns around and comes face to face with none other than Marc-André ter Stegen.

“Dude, are you _trying_ to get people’s attention or are you just that clumsy?”

Marc looks up in surprise, blinks at Manuel, then sighs. “Sorry, slipped on someone’s plastic bag full of food.”

Manuel looks over the chair and can see his fellow goalkeeper’s white trainers now splotched with tomato sauce. “Eww.”

“I know,” Marc sighs again, then points to the chair next to Manu. “Is that reserved?”

“Nah, you can sit there,” Manuel says. “I think this is supposed to be some sort of VIP tent, so there’s no allocated seating, but I’m not sure who’ll be in here with us.”

Marc makes a face. “If there’s media, I’m taking my chances out in the main stands. I have a ticket anyway.”

“Me too, but let’s hope we can stay here.”

“What are the chances of us bumping into someone else?” Marc asks after about twenty minutes of catching each other up on what they’d done over the summer break so far.

“100%. Because I’m pretty sure that’s Mesut trying to sneak in from the side over there…”

Marc looks to where Manuel is discreetly pointing and sure enough, that does look like the Arsenal midfielder trying to casually walk into the room. Manuel takes his phone out to send a quick text; Mesut’s eyes widen and he quickly looks around the room when he reads Manuel’s texts telling him that he’s there.

“Geez this place,” Mesut says quietly when he takes the seat on Manuel’s other side. “Okay I get everyone is happy that they’ve been promoted back to the Bundesliga, but this is a bit overkill, don’t you think?”

“The prawn canapés too much for you?” Manuel teases.

Mesut rolls his eyes. “Sami got asked to commentate and talk about the “wonderful and successful long history of the club”. Honestly, what?”

Manuel shrugs. “They gotta take advantage of the fact that they’ve got World Cup winners who used to play for them and are willing to come to these shindigs.”

“Is that what Kevin’s doing too?” Mesut asks. “Being the pin-up boy because he’s a World Cup winner?”

“Something like. I’m not really sure. I’m trying to stay away; I’m only here for moral support.”

Mesut nods and turns to Marc. “You too?”

“Jo and Bernd are doing some talks with their youth teams, so we’ll probably see Ju sometime a as well,” Marc confirms.

“This is going to be one big national team reunion,” Mesut laughs softly.

“Let’s just hope no-one recognises us all here,” Marc frowns. “Can you imagine the shitstorm if we end up on the front cover of Bild? Jogi will probably make us do shuttle runs every night just to punish us.”

Manuel and Mesut shudder.

“Which is why I’m going to go sit in the stands - or climb up a tree - if I see a reporter,” the Arsenal midfielder says. “I don’t need that type of extra training, thank you very much.”

Manuel and Marc-André nod vigorously.

“So, who wants to be in charge of getting us all food?”

They’re munching on a mixture of western and traditional Swabian finger foods when someone unceremoniously plonks himself in the empty seat next to Mesut.  

The three of them stare at the stranger for a few seconds, all of them afraid that he’s a reporter, and Manuel’s just about to politely but firmly ask him to leave, when Marc-André squeaks out “Thomas!?”

Manuel blinks. No way. Okay. Maybe yes way, because that toothy grin is awfully familiar.

“What’s happening guys?” a familiar voice asks, and Manuel can only gape some more.

“Mülli, what the hell are you wearing?” Mesut asks in a voice full of disbelief.

Manuel is just as bewildered with Thomas’s attire as the Arsenal midfielder, because nothing that Thomas is wearing should even be in the same postcode as each other, let alone worn on the same body.

The carpet jacket is emerald green and rust orange diamonds over a black and white plaid shirt. His thick plastic black-rimmed glasses take up nearly half his face and look like something he bought at the budget store. He’s wearing scruffy red trainers that stand out even more tucked over the cuffs of his dull grey khaki pants, and his messenger bag is half canvas-half battered leather. Manuel thinks Thomas is trying to go for ‘ironic hipster’ but quite frankly all he’s actually achieved is an outfit that looks like he picked it out blindfolded while walking through a thrift store. Looking at Thomas is like watching a train wreck - you want to look away but you can’t.

Thomas however, is quite happy with his clothes. “What’s wrong with it?” he asks, smoothing down the front of his plaid shirt.

“Ah…” Mesut says, “do you really want me to answer that?”

Thomas rolls his eyes. “I’m in disguise; do you guys have any idea how many reporters are lurking outside this VIP area?”

_Okay that kinda makes sense_ , Manuel thinks, because although he’d obviously get stares from some people, no-one in their right would believe that Thomas would voluntarily wear what he’s wearing right now, and the chances of Thomas getting recognised here in Stuttgart were beyond slim. As he watches his lanky teammate effortlessly navigate the more populated part of the tent and bring back platters of food (they all fight over the prawn canapés) with exactly zero guests giving Thomas a second look, Manuel’s starting to think that as costumes go, maybe Thomas had the right idea after all. But then another familiar national teammate walks in the tent with a friend and he dismisses the idea.

Julian Weigl is wearing a pair of extremely tight camouflage pants, a baggy black shirt and large white puffy jacket. He’s got a black Pursuit cap on a large silver necklace that looks like something a gangster rapper from back in the 90s would wear. Julian’s friend is wearing nearly exactly the same thing except in reverse colour combination: army camouflage hat, white pants and silver shirt; aside from an oversized black biker jacket, everything he’s wearing looks like it’s been painted on.

If possible, they look even more ridiculous than Thomas does.

“What the fuck are you both wearing?” Marc-André echoes Mesut from earlier, looking them both up and down. “Christ, Leo, did you shop in the kids section or something? I’m pretty sure wearing pants that tight is gonna reduce your chances of having kids one day.”

The friend that Marc called Leo just rolls his eyes. “Just because you dress like a grandpa doesn’t mean the rest of us have to.”

They exchange hugs and backslaps and Mesut, Thomas and Manuel get properly introduced to a friend from the younger players’ U21 days - Leonardo Bittencourt, now Manuel recognises the name - and their little group suddenly isn’t so little anymore.

“You still didn’t answer my question,” Marc-André says. “Did you coordinate what you were gonna wear today? Or were you aiming for the twin look?”

“Nah, we’ll leave that particular kink to you and your lover boy,” Leonardo smirks, laughing loudly when Marc-André cringes. “This is called _fashion_.”

Manuel decides not to comment on Leonardo’s statement since he’s not really sure which dictionary was used for the definition of “fashion. Instead, he turns to Julian and says. “Hi Ju, Marc says you’re here for Jo?”

“He’s with Bernd at the far end where all the foil balloons are,” Julian nods. “I didn’t want to stick around there ‘cause there’s a lot of reporters.”

“Yeah around here there’s hardly any reporters for some reason.”

“What’s Mo doing?” Marc-André asks Leonardo.

“Absolutely no idea,” Leonardo admits. “I’m here for moral support and the food. Mostly food, though. But don’t tell Mo.”

“Can’t blame you,” Thomas says, “those canapés are awesome! The servers are avoiding us now though ‘cause we keep grabbing them before any of the other guests can get at them.”

Which is definitely not ideal, Manuel thinks, since they’re supposed be low profile. Finishing up all the finger food and making the servers notice their bigger group now isn’t a good idea.

“We’re gonna need to split up,” Mesut says, almost reading Manuel’s mind. “I don’t care how good your “disguises” are, all of us standing together are going to attract too much attention, and I don’t have a good excuse to be in Germany at the moment; getting caught is a no-no for me.”

“I thing avoiding being recognised is a great idea,” a voice says from behind them, and they all spin around.

“Hey Fips!” Thomas says excitedly when they see/confirm the owner of the new voice, then shrugs and says ‘oops’ when everyone shushes him.

Philipp gives the lanky forward an amused look and briefly raises one of his eyebrows at him. “Are you trialling your Halloween costume?”

Thomas rolls his eyes. “Fancy bumping into you here.”

“Yes, fancy that,” Philipp agrees with a half smile. He then quirks up both eyebrows and asks, “Did you all plan being here together or is this an accidental meeting of the Fashion Club?”

Manuel pinches his lips together, trying not to laugh when Leonardo and Julian look hurt at that. It always amazed Manuel (and everyone he knew, actually) how much Philipp could say by only moving his eyebrows a certain way. The tiny captain hadn’t said anything, but anyone could tell that Philipp was very amused (and not really convinced) by the so-called costumes. And from the expressions on the two younger players’ faces, they were obviously now wishing they’d worn something else. Manuel kinda feels sorry for them.

“Not planned,” he says, trying to bring the conversation back to him. “And in case you’re wondering, we have no plans of getting caught by the tabloids either.”

“Good,” Philipp nods. “Stay away from the interview tents because there’s going to be some reporters there for the public press conference; but this side and the back field where the ‘keepers are should be safe.”

“Thanks, we’ll probably split up soon.”

Philipp nods again, then says his goodbyes before leaving.

“So.” Mesut turns to Marc-André and Manuel. “I’m assuming you guys wanna check out the ‘keeper field? Let’s go; I feel like going for a walk.”

Manuel smiles at how Mesut has effectively split them up so that the Fashion Club were together.

“We can come with you,” Thomas offers, but Mesut shakes his head.

“Eat first guys, before they run out of the good stuff; we can meet up in a couple of hours and have real food.”

“You’re just trying to get rid of us,” Thomas pouts, then ruins it all by grinning. “That’s okay, me, Ju and Mr. di Caprio here are going to have fun while you guys get sunburnt and watch boring goalie clinics.” He wraps his arms around the two younger men’s shoulders, and starts steering them towards the food, already chatting their ears off.

“Mülli’s jacket made my eyes hurt,” Marc-André says as they put their sunglasses on and head out.

“I think that was the point,” Mesut smiles. “The disguise actually did work well for him, don’t you think?”

“It did,” Manuel has to agree. “But don’t tell him that though, he’s going to be insufferable if he finds out we thought he had a good idea.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is kinda an expansion on [Quality time](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6409738/chapters/14731129).
> 
> I wrote a Snuglies-centric side fic called [An interlude in Stuttgart](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7250728/chapters/20212126)
> 
> Comes say hello :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The playlist](https://open.spotify.com/user/mrhugolloris/playlist/64CpMXaSHQ9CxzE9DAA6cV), as created by the awesome [mrhugolloris](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ahbonilnapasdeprenom/pseuds/mrhugolloris). 
> 
> Thank you so much for making this - you seriously saved the entire fic for me! Now that I've heard your playlist, I can feel better about it because with your music, the story actually _works._ Million kisses! :*

**Author's Note:**

> \--  
> I have a [tumblr account ](https://khalehla.tumblr.com) for my writings and random ficlets. If you have a question about this or any of my other stories, come say hi :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I write **fiction** about real people. As far as I know, none of these events ever happened; any resemblance to any actual events are purely coincidental.


End file.
